In the Fifth at Malory Towers ( by Enid Blyton

In the common-room DARRELL told Alicia about June’s idiotic trick. Alicia laughed. “It’s in the family, isn’t it! I and my brothers are trick-mad, and now June, my cousin, is going the same way. It’s a pity we’re in the fifth. I feel it wouldn’t be very dignified to play any of our tricks now.” Darrell sighed. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. Growing-up has its drawbacks, and that’s one of them. We have to be dignified and give up some of our silly ideas — but oh, Alicia, I wish you could have seen June all blown up — honestly it was as good as any of your tricks!” “It’s a pity that cousin of mine is such a hard and brazen little wretch,” said Alicia. “I don’t actually feel she’s afraid of anything — except perhaps my brother Sam. The odd thing is she simply adores him, though he’s given her some first-class spankings, and won’t stand a scrap of nonsense from her when she comes to stay.” “You can’t seem to get at her, somehow,” said Darrell. “I mean — she doesn’t seem to care. Well — she’s a bit like you, you know, Alicia — though you’re a lot better now!” Alicia went rather pink. “All right. Don’t rub it in. I know I’m hard, but you won’t make me any better by telling me! You’ve probably not noticed it but I have tried to be more sympathetic with fools and donkeys! Of course, not being either yourself you’ve had no chance of seeing it.” Darrell laughed. She slipped her arm through Alicia’s. “You’re a bit of a donkey yourself,” she said. “But there’s one thing about you that sticks out a mile — and that is your absolute straightness — and I don’t feel that about June. Do you? I feel it about my sister Felicity — you could trust her anywhere at any time — but not June. There’s something sly about her as well as hard.” “Well, we’ll have to lick her into shape whilst we’re still at Malory Towers,” said Alicia. “We’ve got two more years to do it in — and then off we go to college — leaving kids like June and Felicity behind to carry on!” June arrived in the fifth-form common room on Tuesday evening to say her lines to Alicia and Darrell. She looked very sulky. The girls, who were most of them busy with odd jobs such as darning, making out lists, rewriting work, writing letters home and so on, looked up as June strode into the room. “Don’t you know that a lower school kid knocks before she comes in?” said Moira.

June said nothing, but glowered. “Go out, knock and wait till you’re told to come in,” ordered Moira, in her dictatorial voice. June hesitated. She detested being ordered about. Moira felt in her pocket for her little Punishment Book, and June fled. She didn’t want any more lines! “I never knew anyone who so badly needed licking into shape,” said Moira, grimly. “Little toad! I know she’s your cousin, Alicia, but she’s no credit to you!” “I can’t say your sister Bridget is much credit to you either,” retorted Alicia. She didn’t particularly want to defend June, but she resented Moira’s high and mighty manner. Let her look after her own bad-mannered sister! “June’s knocked twice already,” said Catherine. “Oughtn't we to say “come in”?” “When I say so,” said Moira. “Do her good to wait.” June knocked again. “Come in,” said Moira, and June came in, red and furious. She went to Darrell and silently gave her the book out of which she had learnt her lines. “Repeat them to me,” said Darrell. June gabbled them off without a single mistake. Darrell looked at her. She really was very like Alicia — and she had Alicia’s marvellous memory, too. No doubt it had taken June only about five minutes to memorize that long poem. She went to Alicia, and gabbled off what she had learnt for her, again with no mistake. “Right,” said Alicia. “You can go — and if you don’t want to spend the whole of this term learning lines, try to be more civil to your elders.” June scowled. Belinda whipped out her pencil. “Hold it!” she said to the surprised June. “Yes — just like that — mouth down, brows frowning, surly expression. Hold it, hold it! I want it for my Scowl Book. It’s called 'How to Scowl', and it’s really interesting. You should see some of the scowls I’ve got!” Moira and Gwendoline, who knew they had contributed to this unique book, immediately scowled with annoyance, and then straightened their faces at once in case Belinda saw them. Blow Belinda! One couldn’t even scowl in peace with her around. June stood still, scowling even more fiercely. “Done?” she said at last. “Well, I wish you joy of all your scowls — I’ll be willing to come along and offer you a good selection any time you like. It’s an easy thing to do when any fifth — former is around.”

She stalked off, feeling in her pocket for the lines she had learnt for Mam’zelle. They hadn’t really taken her very long. Thank goodness for a parrot memory! June had only to read lines through once, saying them out loud, to know them. Others with less good memories envied her tremendously. It didn’t seem fair that June, who tried so little, could do such good work, and that they, who tried so hard, very often only produced bad or ordinary work! “Blow!” said Irene, suddenly, putting down her pencil. She had been composing a little galloping tune, the one that had been in her head for some time after she had heard the galloping hooves of the horses in the drive. “I’m just nicely in the middle of this tirretty-too tune — and I’ve just remembered it’s my turn to do the flowers in the classroom. I ought to go and pick them before it’s quite dark.” “Let me go,” said Catherine, putting down her darning. “I’ll be pleased to do it for you. You’re such a genius, Irene — you just go on with your tune. I’m only an ordinary mortal — no gifts at all — and it’s a pleasure to do what little I can.” She smiled her beaming smile, and Irene felt slightly sick. Everyone was getting tired of Catherine and her martyr-like ways. She was always putting herself out for someone, offering to do the jobs nobody else wanted to do, belittling herself, and praising others extravagantly. “No thanks,” said Irene, shortly. “It’s my job and I must do it.” “How like you to feel like that!” gushed Catherine. “Well — I’m quite busy darning Gwendoline's stocking, so if you really wouldn’t like me to do the flowers for you, I’ll...” But Irene was gone. She slammed the door and nobody except Catherine minded. They all felt like slamming the door themselves. “I do think Irene might have said thank you,” said Catherine, in rather a hurt voice. “Don’t you, Maureen?” Maureen felt that everyone was waiting to pounce on her if she dared to say “yes”. Irene was so very popular. She was hesitating how to answer when the door opened and Irene came back. “Someone’s done the flowers!” she said. “Yes — now I come to think of it, I saw Clarissa doing them,” said Mavis. “What on earth for?” demanded Irene. “Gosh — I hope people aren’t going to run round after me doing my jobs! I’m still perfectly capable of doing them.” “Well,” said Darrell, suddenly remembering, “it’s Clarissa's week, idiot. Your week is next week. You looked it up this morning.” “Gosh!” said Irene again, with a comical air of dismay. “I’m nuts! I go and

interrupt my own bit of composing, and rush off to do a job I’m not supposed to do till next week. Anyway — it gave dear Catherine a chance to make one of her generous offers!” “That’s not kind of you, Irene,” said Catherine, flushing. “But never mind — I do understand. If I could compose like you I’d say nasty things sometimes, I expect! I do understand.” “Could you stop being forgiving and understanding long enough for me to finish my tune?” said Irene, in a dangerous voice. “I don’t care if you “understand” or not — all I care about at the moment is to finish this.” Catherine put on a saintly face, pressed her lips together as if stopping herself from retorting, and went on darning. There was a knock at the door. Irene groaned. “Go away! Don’t come in!” The door opened and Connie’s face peered round. “Is Ruth here? Ruth, can you come for a minute? Bridget is out here. We’ve got rather a good idea.” “I don’t like Bridget,” said Ruth, in a low voice. “And anyway I’m busy. So's everyone else here.” “But, Ruth — I’ve hardly seen you this week,” protested Connie. “Come on out for a minute. By the way, I’ve mended your roller-skates for you. They’re ready for you to use again.” Irene groaned. Darrell groaned, too. She was trying to draft out the third act of the pantomime. “Either tell Connie to go, or go yourself,” said Irene. “If not, I’ll go! I’ll go and sit in the bathroom and take this with me. Perhaps I’ll get a few minutes peace then. Tirretty-tirretty-too. Yes, I think I’ll go.” She got up. Connie fled, thinking Irene was going to row her. Ruth looked round apologetically, but said nothing. “It’s all right,” said Darrell, softly. “Keep Connie at arm’s length till she leaves you in peace, Ruth — and don’t worry about it!” But Catherine had to be silly about it, of course. “Poor Connie,” she said. “I really can’t help feeling sorry for her. We oughtn't to be too hard on her, ought we?”

The weeks go on NOW the days began to slip by more quickly. Two weeks went — three weeks — and then the fourth week turned up and began to slip away, too. Everything was going well. There was no illness in the school. The weather was fine, so that the playing fields were in use every day, and there was plenty of practice for everyone. Work was going well, and except for the real duds, nobody was doing badly. Five lacrosse matches had already been won by the school, and Darrell, as games captain for the fifth, was in the seventh heaven of delight. She had played in two of the matches, and had shot both the winning goals. Felicity had gone nearly mad with joy. She had been able to watch Darrell in both because they were home matches. Felicity redoubled her practices and begged Darrell for all the coaching time she could spare. She was reserve for the fourth school-team, and was determined to be in it before the end of the term. The plans for the Christmas entertainment were going well, too. So far no help had been asked from either Mr. Young, the music-master, or Miss Greening, the elocution mistress. The girls had planned everything themselves. Darrell had been amazed at the way she and Sally had been able to grasp the planning of a big pantomime. At first it had seemed a hopeless task, and Darrell hadn’t had the faintest idea how to set about it. But now, having got down to it with Sally, having read up a few other plays and pantomimes, and got the general idea, she was finding that she seemed to have quite a gift for working out a new one! “It’s wonderful!” she said to Sally. “I didn’t know I could. I’m loving it. I say, Sally — do you think, do you possibly think I might have a sort of gift that way? I never thought I had any gift at all.” “Yes,” said Sally, loyally. “I think you have got a gift for this kind of thing. That’s the best of a school like this, that has so many many interests — there’s something for everybody — and if you have got a hidden or sleeping gift you’re likely to find it, and be able to use it. There’s your way of scribbling down verse, too — I never knew you could do that before!” “Nor did I, really,” said Darrell. She fished among her papers and pulled out a scribbled sheet. “Can I read you this, Sally? It’s the song Cinderella is supposed to sing as she sits by the fire, alone. Her sisters have gone to the ball. Listen:

“By the fire I sit and dream And in the flames I see, Pictures of the lovely things That never come to me, That never come to me, Ah me! Carriages, a lovely gown, A flowing silver cloak — The embers move, the picture’s gone, My dreams go up in smoke, My dreams go up in smoke, In smoke!” She stopped. “That’s as far as I’ve got with that song. Of course, I know it’s not awfully good, and certainly not poetry, only just verse — but I never in my life knew I could even put things in rhyme! And, of course, Irene just gobbles them up, and sets them to delicious tunes in no time.” “Yes. It’s very good,” said Sally. “You do enjoy it all, too, don’t you? I say — what will your parents think when they come to the pantomime and see on the programme that Darrell Rivers has written the words — and the songs, too!” “I don’t know. I don’t think they’ll believe it,” said Darrell. Darrell was not the only member of the fifth form enjoying herself over the production of the pantomime. Irene was too — she was setting Darrell’s songs to exactly the right tunes, and scribbling down the harmonies as if she had been composing all her life long — as she very nearly had, for Irene was humming melodies before she was one year old! The class were used to seeing Irene coming along the corridor or up the stairs, bumping unseeingly into them, humming a new tune. “Tumty-ta, ti-ta, ti- ta, tumty-too. Oh, sorry, Mavis. I honestly didn’t see you. Tumty-ta, ti-ta-gosh, did I hurt you, Catherine. I never saw you coming.” “Oh, that’s quite all right,” said Catherine, gently, patting Irene on the arm,

and making her shy away at once. “We don’t have geniuses like you every...” But Irene was gone. How she detested Catherine with her humble ways, and her continual air of sacrificing herself for others! “Tumty-ta, ti-ta,” she hummed suddenly in class, and banged her hand down on the desk. “Got it! Of course, that’s it! Oh, sorry, Miss Jimmy — er, James, I mean, Miss James. I just got carried away for a moment. I’ve been haunted by...” “You indent explain,” said Miss James, with a twinkle in her eye. “Do you think you’ve got that particular tune out of your system now, and could concentrate, say, for half an hour, on what the rest of the class are doing?” “Oh yes — yes, of course,” said Irene, still rather bemused. She bent over her maths book, pencil in hand. Miss James was amused to see one page of figures and one page of scribbled music, when the book was given in — both excellent, for Irene was almost as much a genius at maths as at music. She insisted that the two things went together, though this seemed unbelievable to the rest of the class. Maths were so dull and music so lovely! The words of the pantomime progressed fast, and so did the music. It was essential that they should because there could be no rehearsing until there was something to rehearse! Belinda was busy with designs for scenery and costumes. She, too, was extremely happy. Her pencil flew over the paper each evening and every moment of free time — she drew everything, even the pattern on Cinderella’s apron! Little Janet waited eagerly as the designs grew and were passed on to her. She too was eager and enthusiastic. She turned out the enormous trunks of dresses and tunics and costumes of all periods, used by other girls at Malory Towers in terms gone by. How could she alter this? How could she use that? Oh, what a wonderful piece of blue velvet! Just right for the Prince! Little Janet had always been ingenious, but now she surpassed herself. She chose out all the material and stuffs she needed, with unerring taste — she sorted out dresses and costumes that could be altered. She ran round the school pressing all the good needle-workers into her service. She begged Miss Linnie, the quiet little sewing-mistress, to help her by allowing some of the classes to work on the clothes and decorations. “I would never have thought that little mouse of a Janet had it in her to blossom out like this!” said Miss Potts to Mam’zelle. “What these children can do if they’re just given a chance to do things on their own!” Another person who was working hard, though in quite a different direction,

was Alicia! Alicia, who never worked really hard at anything, because she had good brains and didn’t need to. But now she had something to do that, brains or no brains, needed constant hard work and practice. Alicia was to be the Demon King in the pantomime — and he was to be an enchanter, a conjurer who could do magic things! Alicia was to show her skill at conjuring, and she meant to be as good a conjurer on the school stage as any conjurer in a London pantomime. “Well — I didn’t dream that Alicia’s ability for playing silly tricks and doing bits of amateur conjuring to amuse her friends would make her work as hard as this” said Miss Peters, the third-form mistress, shutting the door of one of the music-rooms softly. She had heard peculiar sounds in there — sounds of pantings, sounds of something falling, sounds of sheer exasperation, and she had peeped in to see what in the world was going on. Alicia was there, with her back to her, practising a spot of juggling! Yes, she was going to juggle, as well as conjure — and she had an array of coloured rings which she was throwing rapidly up into the air, one after another, catching them miraculously. Then she would miss one, and click in exasperation. She would have to begin all over again. Ah — Alicia had found something that didn’t need only brainwork — it needed patience, practice, deftness, and then patience all over again. “Why did I ever say I’d be the Demon King!” groaned Alicia, picking up the rings for the twenty-second time and beginning again. “Why did I ever agree to do conjuring and juggling? I must have been mad.” But her pride made her go on and on. If Alicia did a thing it had to be done better than anybody else could possibly do it. The fifth form were most intrigued by this new interest of Alicia’s. It was such fun to see her suddenly pick up a pencil, rubber, ruler and pen, and juggle them rapidly in the air, catching them deftly in one hand at the finish! It was amusing to see her get up to find Mam’zelle’s fountain-pen, and pick it apparently out of the empty air, and even more amusing to see her gravely abstract an egg from Mam’zelle’s ear. “Alicia! I will not have such a thing!” stormed Mam’zelle. “Oh, là là! Now you have found a cigarette in my other ear. It is not nice! It makes me go — what do you call it — duck-flesh.” “Goose-flesh, Mam’zelle,” said Alicia, with one of her wicked grins. “Dear

me — has your fountain-pen gone again? It’s up in the air as usual!” And she reached out her hand and picked it once more from the air. No wonder the class liked Alicia’s new interest. It certainly added a lot more enjoyment to lessons!

Gwendoline Mary and Maureen TWO girls were anxiously waiting for Darrell to finish the pantomime. They were Gwendoline and Maureen. Each of them saw herself in the part of Cinderella. Each of them crept away to the dormy on occasion, let her golden hair loose, and posed in front of the dressing-table mirrors. “I look exactly right for Cinderella,” thought Gwendoline Mary. “I’m the type, somehow. I could sit pensively by the fireside and look really lovely. And as the princess at the ball I’d be wonderful.” She wrote and told her mother about the coming pantomime. “Of course, we don’t know yet about the characters,” she said. “Most of the girls would like me to be Cinderella — they say I look the part. I don’t know what you think, Mother? I’m not conceited, as you know, but I can’t help thinking I’d do it rather well. What does Miss Winter think?” Back came two gushing letters at once, one from her delighted mother, one from her old governess, worshipping as ever. DARLING GWEN, Yes, of course you must be Cinderella. You would be absolutely right. Your hair would look so lovely in the firelight. Oh, how proud I shall be to see you sitting there pensive and sad, looking into... And so on and so on. Miss Winter’s letter was much the same. Both of them had apparently taken it completely for granted that Gwendoline would have the chief part. Moira came barging into the dormy one day and discovered a startled Gwendoline standing in front of her mirror, her hair all round her face, and a towel thrown over her shoulders for an evening cloak. “Gosh — what do you think you’re doing?” she said, in amazement. “Washing your hair or something? Are you mad, Gwen? You can’t wash your hair at this time of day. You’re due for French in five minutes.” Gwendoline muttered something and flung the towel back on its rack. She went bright red. Moira was puzzled. Two days later Moira again came rushing into the dormy to see if the

windows were open. This time she found Maureen standing in front of her mirror, her hair loose down her back in a golden sheet, and one of the cubicle curtains pinned round her waist to make a train. Moira gaped. Maureen went pink and began to brush her hair as if it was a perfectly ordinary thing to be found with it loose, and a curtain pinned to her waist. Moira found her voice. “What do you and Gwen think you’re doing, parading about here with your hair loose and towels and curtains draped round you?” she demanded. “Have you both gone crackers? Every time I come into this dormy I see you or Gwen with your hair loose and things draped round you. What are you up to?” Maureen couldn’t possibly tell the scornful practical Moira what she was doing — merely pretending to be a beautiful Cinderella with a cloud of glorious hair, and a long golden train to her dress. But Moira suddenly guessed.

She laughed her loud and scornful laugh. “Oh! I believe I know! You’re playing Cinderella! Both of you pretending to be Cinderella. What a hope you’ve got! We’d never choose rabbit-teeth to play Cinderella.” And with this very cutting remark Moira went out of the room, laughing loudly. Maureen gazed at herself in the mirror and tears came to her eyes. Rabbit-teeth! How horrible of Moira. How frightfully cruel. She couldn’t help her teeth being like that. Or could she? Very guiltily Maureen remembered how she had been told to wear a wire round her front teeth to force them back — and she hadn’t been able to get used to it, and had tucked it away in her drawer at Mazeley Manor. Nobody there had said anything about it. Nobody had bothered. Mazeley Manor was a free-and-easy school, as Maureen was so fond of saying, comparing it unfavourably with Malory Towers, and its compulsory games, its inquisitive Matron and determined, responsible housemistresses. “If I’d been here when the dentist told me to wear that wire round my teeth, Matron and Miss Potts would both have made me do it, even if I didn’t want to,” she thought. “And by now I’d have nice teeth — not sticking-out and ugly.” And for the first time a doubt about that wonderful school, Mazeley Manor, crept into Maureen’s mind. Was it so good after all to be allowed to do just as you liked? To play games or not as you liked? To go for walks or not at your own choice? Perhaps — yes perhaps it was better to have to do things that were good for you, whether you liked them or not, till you were old enough and responsible enough to choose. Maureen had chosen not to wear the wire when she should have done — and now she had been called Rabbit-Teeth, and she was sure she wouldn’t be chosen as Cinderella. She did up her hair rather soberly, blinking away a few more tears, and trying to shut her lips over the protruding front teeth. She forgot to unpin the curtain, and went out of the room, thinking so deeply that she didn’t even feel it dragging behind her. She met Mam’zelle at the top of the stairs. “Tiens!” said Mam’zelle, stopping in surprise. “Que faites vous, Maureen? What are you doing with that curtain?” Maureen cast a horrified look at her “train” and rushed back to the dormy. She unpinned it and put the curtain back into its place. Feeling rather subdued she went downstairs to find Gwen. Gwen was getting very very tired of Maureen. The new girl had fastened on to her like a leech. She related long and boring stories of her people, her friends,

her old school and especially of herself. She never seemed to think that Gwen would like to talk too. Gwen sometimes broke into the middle of Maureen’s boring speeches. “Maureen, did I ever tell you about the time I went to Norway? My word, it was super. I stayed up to dinner each night, and I was only thirteen, and...” “I’ve never been to Norway,” Maureen would interrupt. “But my aunt went there last summer. She sent me a whole lot of post-cards. I’ll find them to show you. You’ll be interested to see them, I’m sure.” Gwen wasn’t interested. She was never interested in anything anyone else ever showed her. In fact, like Maureen, she wasn’t interested in anything except herself. The only time that Maureen ever really listened to her was when she told unkind tales of the others in the form. Then Maureen would listen with great interest. “I wouldn’t have thought it of Darrell,” she would say. “Good gracious, did Daphne really do that? Oh, I say — fancy Bill being so deceitful!” Gwen was forced to play games and not only that but to take part in a lot of practices. She was made to do gym properly, and never allowed to get out of it by announcing she didn’t feel too well. She had to go for every walk that was planned, fuming and furious. It was June that enlightened Maureen about all this assiduous attendance at games, gym and walks. She told her gleefully the history of Gwen’s weak heart the term before. “Gwen wanted to get out of the School Cert, exam, so she foxed and said she’d a weak heart that fluttered like a bird!” grinned June. “Her mother took her home. And then it was discovered Gwen was pretending and back she came just in time for the exam — and ever since she’s been made to go in for games and gym like anything. She’s a humbug!” June had no right to say all this to a senior, and Maureen had no right to listen to her. But, like Gwen, she loved a bit of spiteful gossip, and she stored the information up in her mind, though she said nothing to Gwen about it. The two girls were forced to be together a great deal. Almost everyone else in the form had their own friend. Moira had no particular friend, but went with Catherine, who was always at anyone’s disposal. So Gwen and Maureen, being odd ones out, had to walk together, and were left together very often when everyone else was doing something. Gwen grew to detest Maureen. Horrid, conceited, selfish creature! She hated the sound of her voice. She tried to avoid her when she could. She made excuses

not to be with her. But Maureen wouldn’t let her go. Gwen was the only one available to be talked to, and boasted to, and on occasion, when she had fallen foul of Miss James, to be wailed to. Maureen thought she could draw as well as Belinda — or almost as well. She thought she could sing beautifully — and, indeed, she had an astonishingly powerful voice which, alas, continually went off the true note, and was flat. She was certain she could compose tunes as well as Irene. And she even drove Darrell to distraction by offering to write a few verses for her. “What are we to do with this pest of a Maureen?” complained Janet, one evening. “She comes and asks if she can help me and then if I give her the simplest thing to sew, she goes and botches it up so that I have to undo it.” “And she had the sauce to come and tell me she didn’t like some of my chords in the opening chorus of Cinderella,” snorted Irene. “I ticked her off. But she won’t learn she’s not wanted. She won’t learn she’s no good! She’s so thick- skinned that I’m sure a bullet would bounce off her if she was shot!” “She wants a lesson,” said Alicia. “My word — if she comes and offers to show me how to juggle, I’ll juggle her! I’ll juggle her all down the corridor and back again, and down into the garden and on to the rocks and into the pool!” “Gwen’s looking pretty sick these days,” said Belinda. “She doesn’t like having a double that clings to her like Maureen does. I wonder if she knows how like her Maureen is. In silliness and boringness and conceitedness and boastfulness and...” “Oh, I say,” said the saintly Catherine, protesting. “Aren’t you being rather unkind, Belinda?” Belinda looked at Catherine. “There are times to be kind and times to be unkind, dear sweet Catherine,” she said. “But you don’t seem to know them. You think you’re being kind to me when you sharpen all my pencils to a pinpoint — but you’re not. You’re just being interfering. I don’t want all my pencils like that. I keep some of them blunt on purpose. And about this being unkind to Maureen. Sometimes unkindness is a short cut to putting something right. I guess that’s what Maureen wants — a dose of good hard common sense administered sharply. And that’s what she’ll get if she doesn’t stop this silly nonsense of hers.” Catherine put on her martyr-like air. “You know best, of course, Belinda. I wouldn’t dream of disagreeing with you. I’m sorry about the pencils. I just go round seeing what I can do to help, that’s all.”

“Shall I show you how you look in your own thoughts, Catherine?” said Belinda, suddenly. Everyone listened, most amused at Belinda’s sudden outburst. She was usually so very good-natured — but people like Maureen, Gwen and Catherine could be very very trying. Belinda’s pencil flew over a big sheet of paper. She worked at it for five minutes, then took up a pin. “I’ll pin it to the wall, girls,” she said. “Catherine will simply love it. It’s the living image of her as she imagines herself.” She took the sheet to the wall and pinned it up. The girls crowded round. Catherine, consumed with curiosity, went too. It was a picture of her standing in a stained-glass window, a gleaming halo round her head. Underneath, in big bold letters Belinda had written five words: OUR BLESSED MARTYR, ST. CATHERINE. Catherine fled away from the shrieks of delighted laughter. “She’s got what she wanted!” said Darrell. “Catherine, come back! How do you like being a saint in a stained-glass window?”

A plot — and a quarrel BEFORE that week had ended Darrell was ready with the whole pantomime, words and all. Most of the music had been written, because Irene almost snatched the words from Darrell as she finished them. “Quite a Gilbert and Sullivan,” said Moira, rather sneeringly, speaking of the famous comic opera pair of the last century. She was feeling rather out of things. Until the pantomime was written, she could not produce it, so she had nothing to do at the moment. And Moira disliked having nothing to do. She liked running things, organizing things and people, dominating everyone, laying down the law. She was not a popular head-girl. The fifth-formers resented her dictatorial manner. They disliked her lack of humour, and they took as little notice of her as they could. Moira chafed under all this. “Do buck up with this pantomime, Darrell and Sally,” she said. “I wish I’d undertaken to write it myself now, you’re so slow.” “You couldn’t write it,” said Darrell. “You know you couldn’t. You hardly ever get good marks for composition.” Moira flushed. “Don’t be cheeky,” she said. Catherine spoke up for her, using a sweet and gentle voice. “I’m sure Moira only let you and Sally do it to give you a chance,” she said. “I’m sure she could have done it very well herself.” “There speaks our blessed martyr, Saint Catherine,” put in Alicia, maliciously. “Dear Saint Catherine. She deserves the halo Belinda gave her, doesn’t she, girls?” Catherine frowned. Belinda called out at once. “Hold it, Catherine, hold it! No, don’t smile in that sickly sweet manner, let me have that frown again!” Catherine turned away. It was too bad that she should be laughed at when all the time she was trying to be kind and self-sacrificing and really good, poor Catherine thought to herself. She glanced at the wall. Blow! There was yet another picture of her up there, with a bigger halo than ever! Catherine regularly sneaked into the common-room when it was empty, and took down the pictures that Belinda as regularly drew of her. But always there was a fresh one. It was absolutely maddening. This one showed her sharpening thousands of pencils, and if anyone looked carefully at the big halo they could see that it, too, was made of sharpened pencils set closely together. “It’s enough to make anyone furiously angry,” thought Catherine. “I wonder

I don’t lose my temper and break out, and call people names. Well — I try to like them all, but it’s very very difficult.” The fifth form decided they must deal with Maureen as well as with Catherine. “Better show them both exactly where they stand before we begin rehearsing,” said Alicia. “We can’t be bothered by interferers and whiners and saints when once we’re on the job. Now — how shall we deal with Maureen?” “The trouble with her is that she’s so full of herself — thinks she can do everything better than anyone else, and is sure she could run the whole show,” said Darrell. “She’s so jolly thick-skinned there’s no doing anything with her. She’s too vain for words!” “Right,” said Alicia. “We’ll give her a real chance. We’ll tell her to draw some designs to help Belinda — we’ll tell her to sing one or two songs to help Mavis. We’ll tell her to compose one or two tunes to help Irene — and write one or two poems to help Sally. Then we’ll turn the whole lot down scornfully, and she’ll know where she stands.” “Well — it sounds rather drastic,” said Mary-Lou. “It does, rather,” said Sally. “Can’t we tell her to do the things — and let her down not too scornfully?” “Yes. We could pretend she wasn’t being serious — she was just pulling our legs when she brings the tunes and verses and things,” said Darrell. “And we could pat her on the back and clap and laugh — but not take them seriously at all. If she’s got any common-sense she’ll shut up after that. If she hasn’t, we’ll have to be a bit more well — drastic, as Mary-Lou calls it.” Everyone was in this plot except Gwen and Catherine. The girls were afraid one of the two might tell tales to Maureen if they knew of the plan. Moira approved of it, though she thought it not whole-hearted enough. She would have liked the first idea, the “drastic” one. Maureen was told to submit verses, tunes and designs. Also to learn two of the songs in case she could improve on Mavis's interpretation of them. She was so gratified and delighted that she could hardly stammer her thanks. At last, at last she was coming into her own. Her gifts were being recognized! How wonderful! She rushed straight off to tell Gwen. Gwen could hardly believe her ears. She listened, green with jealousy. To ask Maureen to do these things! It was unbelievable. “Aren’t you pleased, Gwen? I can do them all better than the others, can’t I?” cried Maureen, her pale-blue eyes shining brightly. “At last the others are

beginning to realize that I did learn something at Mazeley Manor.” “You and your Measley Manor,” said Gwen, turning away. Maureen was shocked. Had Gwen, Gwen her friend, actually said “Measley”? She must have misheard. She took Gwen by the arm, chattering happily. But Gwen was strangely unfriendly. She was so jealous that she could hardly answer a word. Maureen worked hard. She produced two lots of verses, two tunes, and a variety of designs for costumes. She learnt the two songs that Darrell had given her, going alone into a fifth-form music-room, where she let her loud voice out to such an extent, and so much off the note, that the girls in the next music- rooms listened, startled and amazed. It was not only a loud voice, but it was not true in pitch — it kept sliding off the note, and going flat, like a gramophone just about to run down. It made the astonished girls in the rooms nearby shiver down their spines. Whoever could it be, yowling like that? Bridget, Moira’s fourth-form sister, went to have a look. Gracious, it was a fifth-former yowling in there — who was it — Maureen Little! Bridget grinned and went to find Connie. The two of them had become friends, and Connie was gradually leaving Ruth to herself, coming less and less to ask for her company. The two fourth-formers peered into the square of glass window set in the door of the practice-room where Maureen was singing. “Hear that?” said Bridget, maliciously. “Wonderful, isn’t it? Let’s both go into the room next door and yowl too. Come on. It’s empty now. If a fifth- former's allowed to do that, so are we!” So the two of them went next door and made such a hullabaloo, pretending to be a couple of opera-singers, that everyone in the corridor was startled. Only Maureen, lost in her loud voice, soaring to higher and louder heights, heard nothing. Her door suddenly opened and Moira came in. “MAUREEN! Shut up! We can even hear you in the common-room!” Maureen stopped abruptly. Then, from the next room rose more yowls. Moira hurried there, amazed. Now what was going on? Connie stopped as soon as she saw Moira. But Bridget, who cared nothing for her sister’s anger, sang on vigorously, altering the words of her sung at once. “OHHHHHHH! Here is MOIRA! HERE — is SHE-EE.” “Bridget! Stop that at once!” said Moira, angrily. But Bridget didn’t stop. “HERE — is SHEE-EEE!” she repeated. “Did you hear what I said?” shouted Moira.

Bridget stopped for breath. Tm not making nearly such a noise as Maureen,” she said. “And anyway I keep on the note and she doesn’t. If a fifth-former can yowl away like that why can’t we?” “Now don’t you start being cheeky,” began Moira, going white with annoyance. “You know I won’t stand that. Connie, go out of the room. I advise you not to make close friends with Bridget. You’ll only get yourself into trouble.” Connie went, scared. If it had been Ruth with her, in trouble, she would have stayed and stuck up for her — but Bridget was different. She always stood up for herself. She faced Moira now. “That’s a nice thing to tell anyone about your sister, Moira,” she said. “Washing your dirty linen in public! Telling somebody I’m not fit to make friends with.” “I didn’t say that,” said Moira. “Why can’t you behave yourself, Bridget? I’m ashamed of you. I’m always hearing things about you.” “Well, so am I about you?” said Bridget. “Who is the most domineering person in the fifth? You! Who is the most unpopular head-girl they’ve ever had? You! Who didn’t go up with the old fifth form because nobody could put up with her? You!” “Oh!” cried Moira, whiter still with rage. “You’re unbearable. I shall report you to Miss Williams, yes, and Connie too. And I shall report you every single time I find you doing something you shouldn’t. I know how you sneak out of your dormy at night to talk to the third-formers. I know how you get out of the jobs you ought to do. I hear things too!” “Sneak,” said Bridget, It was a very ugly sight, the two sisters standing there, shouting at one another. Moira was trembling now and so was Bridget. Moira had to keep her hands well down to her side, she so badly wanted to strike her sister. Bridget kept well out of the way. She always came off worst in a struggle. There was a pause. “You’ll be sorry if you do report me about this afternoon,” said Bridget at last. “Very sorry. I warn you. Go and report Maureen! She’ll expect it of the domineering Moira! But just remember — I’ve warned you — you’ll be sorry if you report me.”

“Well, I shall,” said Moira. “It’s my duty to. Fourth-formers aren’t allowed in these practice-rooms, you know that.” She turned and left the room, still trembling. She went to find Miss Williams, the fourth-form mistress. If she didn’t report those two straightaway, whilst she was furious, she might not do it when her anger had died down. Miss Williams was rather cool about the affair. She wrote down the two fourth-form names Moira gave her, and nodded. “Right. I’ll speak to them.” That was all. Moira wished she hadn’t said anything. She felt uncomfortable now about Bridget’s threats. How could Bridget make her sorry? Bridget was so very fierce sometimes, and did such unaccountable things — like the time when she had broken every single one of Moira’s dolls, years ago, because Moira had thrown one of Bridget’s toys out of the window. Yes, Moira felt decidedly uncomfortable as she walked back to the common room. Bridget would certainly get back at her if she could!

The plot is successful MAUREEN had been rather scared at Moira’s sudden arrival in the practice- room. She had heard the angry voices in the next room too, when Moira had left her, and had been even more scared. It didn’t take much to scare Maureen! She slipped hurriedly out of the room and went off to the classroom to put the finishing touches to her designs. She was to show them to the others that evening. She saw Gwen’s sour face as she walked into the common room with her sheaf of designs, and sheets and sheets of music and verses. Oh, Maureen had been very busy! If Mam’zelle and Miss James had known how hard she had been at work they would have been most surprised. Neither of them had any idea that Maureen had it in her to work at all. “What they taught at Mazeley Manor I really do not know,” Miss James said to the other teachers each time she corrected Maureen’s work. “Self-admiration — self-esteem — self-pity,” murmured Miss Williams, who taught one lesson in the fifth form, and had had quite enough of Maureen. “But not self-control,” said Miss James. “What a school! It’s a good thing it’s shut down.” Everyone was in the common-room waiting for Maureen, though neither Gwen nor Catherine knew the little plot that was being hatched by the rest. Maureen beamed round. “Now you’re going to see something,” she said, gaily, and laughed her silly little laugh. “It was always said at Mazeley Manor that I was a good all-rounder — don’t think I’m boasting, will you — but honestly, though I say it myself, I can do most things!” Maureen was surprised to hear some of the girls laughing quite hilariously. “You’re such a joker, Maureen,” said Alicia, appreciatively. “Always being really humorous.” This was a new idea to Maureen. Nobody had ever called her humorous before. She at once went up in her own estimation. “Now,” she said, “I’ll show you the designs first. This is for Cinderella’s ball costume — I’ve gone back to the sixteenth century for it, as you see.” Shrieks of laughter came from everyone. “Priceless!” said Darrell, pretending to wipe her eyes. “How can you think of it, Maureen?” “A perfect scream,” said Mavis, holding up the crude drawing, with its poor colouring. “What a joke! I didn’t know you’d such a sense of humour,

Maureen.” Maureen was puzzled. She hadn’t meant the drawing to be funny at all. She had thought it was beautiful. She hurried on to the next one — but the girls forestalled her and picked up the sheets, showing them round to one another with squeals of laughter. “Look at this one! I never saw anything so funny in my life!” “Good enough for Punch magazine. I say — look at the baron’s face! And what is he wearing?” “This one’s priceless. Gosh, Maureen really is a humorist, isn’t she?” Then Irene picked up the sheets of music. “Hallo! Here are the tunes she has written! I bet they’ll be priceless, too. I’ll play them over.” She went to the common-room piano, and with a very droll expression on her face she played the tunes, making them sound even sillier than they were. Everyone crowded round the piano, laughing. “Isn’t Maureen a scream! She can do funny drawings and write ridiculous tunes too!” Maureen began to feel frightened. Were the girls really in earnest about all this? They seemed to be. Surely — surely — they couldn’t really think that all her lovely work was so bad that it was funny? They must be thinking it was funny on purpose — perhaps they thought she meant it to be! She turned to find Gwen. Gwen would understand. Gwen was her friend, she had told Gwen everything — how good she was at drawing, music and singing, how hard she had worked at all this, how pleased she was with the results. Gwen was looking at her and it wasn’t a nice look. It was a triumphant look that said, “Ah — pride comes before a fall, my girl — and what a fall!” It was a look that said, “I’m glad about all this. Serves you right.” Maureen was shocked. Gwen laughed loudly, and joined in with the others, “Frightfully funny! Priceless, Maureen! Who would have thought you could be so funny?” “Now sing,” said Mavis, and thrust one of the songs into her hand. “Let’s hear you. You’ve such a wonderful voice, haven’t you, so well-trained. I’m sure it must be a great joy to you. Sing!” Maureen did not dare to refuse. She gazed at the music with blurred eyes and sang. Her loud voice rose, even more off the note than usual. It shook with disappointment as the girls began to clap and cheer and laugh again. “Ha ha! Listen to that! Can’t she have a comic part in the play, Darrell, and sing it? She’d bring the house down. Did you ever hear such a voice?” Maureen stopped singing. Tears fell down her cheek. She gave one desperate

look at Gwen, a look begging for a word of praise — but none came. She turned to go out of the room. Catherine ran after her. “Maureen! Don’t take it like that. The girls don’t mean anything!” “Oh yes we do,” said Darrell, under her breath. “We’ve been cruel to be kind. Catherine would say a thing like that.” “Don’t touch me!” cried Maureen. “Saint Catherine — coming all over pious and goody-goody after you’ve laughed at me with the rest! Ho — SAINT!” Catherine shrank back as if she had been slapped in the face. Nobody smiled, except Gwen. Mary-Lou looked upset. She couldn’t bear scenes of any sort. Bill looked on stolidly. She got up. “Well, I’m going riding,” she said. “There’s half an hour of daylight left. Coming, Clarissa?” Bill’s solidness and matter-of-fact voice made everyone feel more normal. They watched Bill and Clarissa go out of the room. “Well — I don’t somehow feel that was quite such a success as we hoped,” said Sally. “Actually I feel rather low-down.” “So do I,” said Darrell. “Maureen is a conceited ass, of course, and badly needed taking down a peg — but I’m afraid we’ve taken her down more pegs than we meant to.” “It won’t hurt her,” said Gwen, in a smug voice. “She thinks too much of herself. I can’t think why she’s attached herself to me all these weeks.” Alicia couldn’t resist this. “Like calls to like, dear Gwen,” she said. “Deep calls to deep. You’re as like as two peas, you and Maureen. It’s been a sweet sight to see you two together.” “You don’t really mean that, Alicia?” said Gwen, after a surprised and hurt silence. “We’re not really alike, Maureen and I. You’ve let your tongue run away with you as usual.” “Think about it, dear Gwendoline Mary,” Alicia advised her. “Do you babble endlessly about your dull family and doings? So does Maureen. Do you think the world of yourself? So does Maureen. Do you think you’d be the one and only person fit to be Cinderella in the play? So does Maureen.” Gwen sprang to her feet and pointed her finger at Moira. “Oh! Just because you found me with my hair down in the dormy the other day, and a towel round my shoulders you went and told the others that I wanted to be Cinderella!” “Well, I didn’t realize it until I caught Maureen doing exactly the same thing,” said Moira. “Both of you posing with your hair loose and things draped round you! Alicia’s perfectly right. You’re as like as two peas. You ought to be

friends. You’re almost twins!” “But — I don’t like Maureen,” said Gwen, in a loud and angry tone. “I’m not surprised,” said Alicia’s smooth voice, a whole wealth of meaning in it. “You should know what she’s like, shouldn’t you — seeing that you’re almost twins!” Gwen went stamping out of the room, fuming. Darrell drummed on the table with a pencil. “I’m not awfully pleased about all this,” she said, in rather a small voice. “Too much spite and malice about!” Gwen suddenly put her head in at the door again and addressed Moira. “I’ll get even with you for telling the girls about me and Maureen in front of the glass!” she said. “You’ll see — I’ll pay you back, head-girl or no head-girl!” Moira frowned and Belinda automatically reached for her pencil. A very fine scowl! But Darrell took the pencil away with a beseeching look. “Not this time,” she said. “There’s too much spite in this room this evening.” “All right — Saint Darrell!” said Belinda, and Darrell had to laugh. Moira came over to her. “Let’s change the subject,” she said. “What about the house-matches? Let’s have a look at the kids you’ve put in.” Darrell got out the lists. Moira, as head-girl, took an interest in the matches in which the fifth-formers played, and because she liked games, she was interested too in the lower-school players. It was about the only thing that she and Darrell saw eye-to-eye about. Soon they were deep in discussion, weighing up the merits of one player against another. “This match against Wellsbrough,” said Darrell. “Next week’s match, I mean, with the fourth team playing Wellsbrough's fourth team. I’ve put young Susan in — and I’d like to put my young sister, Felicity in. What do you think, Moira?” “Good gracious, yes” said Moira. “She’s absolutely first-class. Super! Runs like the wind and never misses a catch. She must have been practising like anything!” “She has,” said Darrell. “I just hesitated because — well, because she’s my sister, and I was a bit afraid I might be showing favouritism, you know.” “Rot!” said Moira. “You’d be showing yourself a bad captain if you didn’t stick the best kids into the team! And I insist on your putting Felicity in!” Darrell laughed. She was pleased. “Oh, all right, seeing that you insist!” she said, and wrote Felicity’s name down. “Gosh, she’ll be pleased.” “How’s June shaping?” called Alicia. “I’ve seen her practising quite a bit lately. Turning over a new leaf do you think?”

“Well — not really,” said Darrell. “I mean — she practises a lot — but when I coach her she’s as off-hand as ever. Never a word of thanks, and always ready to argue. I can’t put her into a match-team yet. She simply doesn’t understand the team spirit — you know, always plays for herself, and not for the side.” “Yes, you’re right,” said Moira. “I’ve noticed that, too. Can’t have anyone in the team who isn’t willing to pull their weight.” Darrell glanced curiously at Moira. How much nicer Moira was over this games question than over anything else! She was fair and just and interested. She forgot to be domineering and opinionated. What a pity she was head of the form — she might have been so much nicer if she had had to knuckle down to someone else. “Could you take the lists down for me and put them up on the sports board?” she said to Moira. “I’ve got a whole heap of things to do still.” Moira took the list just as Catherine hurried to offer to take it. “I’ll take it,” said Catherine, who seemed to think it was only right she should be a doormat for everyone. “No thanks, Saint Catherine,” said Moira, and Catherine went red with humiliation. She had done so much for Moira, been so nice to her, taken such a lot of donkeywork off her shoulders — and all she got was that scornful, hateful name — Saint Catherine. She gave Moira an unexpectedly spiteful look. Darrell saw it and shivered impatiently. “I don’t like all this spitefulness going about,” she thought to herself. “It always boils up into something beastly. Fancy the saintly Catherine giving her beloved Moira such a poisonous look!” Moira went down with the lists. She pinned the list of names for the Fourth Team up first, heading it, “TEAM FOR WELLSBROUGH MATCH”. Immediately a crowd of excited first-formers swarmed round her.

“Felicity! You’re in, you’re in!” yelled somebody, and Felicity’s face glowed happily. “So’s Susan. But you’re not, June,” said another voice. “Fancy — and you’ve been practising so hard. Shame!” “Oh well — what do you expect — Darrell would be sure to put her sister in,” said June’s voice. She was bitterly disappointed, but she spoke in her usual jaunty manner. Moira heard. “June! Apologize at once! Darrell shows no favouritism at all. She was half-inclined to leave Felicity out. I insisted she should be put in. Apologize immediately.” “Well,” began June, defiantly, ready to argue, but Moira was insistent. “I said, ‘Apologize’. You heard me. Do as you’re told.” “I apologize,” said June, sulkily. “But I bet it was you who missed me out!” “I told Darrell that I wouldn’t have anyone in the match-team who didn’t play for the team and not for themselves,” said Moira, curtly. “You don’t pull your weight. You practise and practise — and then in a game all you want to do

is to go your own way, and blow the others! Not my idea of a good sportsman. Think about it, June.” She walked off, not caring in the least what the first-formers thought of her outspokenness. June said nothing. She looked rather queer, Susan thought. She went up to her. “It was mean to say all that in front of us,” she began. “She should have...” “What does it matter?” said June, suddenly jaunty again. “Do you suppose I care tuppence for Moira, or Darrell or Alicia — or any of those stuck-up fifth- formers?”

Grand meeting A GRAND meeting was called to discuss the pantomime, the casting of the characters, and the times of rehearsal. Darrell had finished her writing, and Irene had completed the music. Everything was ready for rehearsal. All the fifth-formers attended the meeting in the North Tower common room. It was very crowded. A fire burned in the big fireplace, for it was now October and the nights were cold. Moira was in the chair. Catherine — rather a quiet and sulky Catherine, not quite so free with her beaming smile — was at her left hand, ready to provide her with anything she wanted. The committee sat on chairs on each side of the table. Moira banged on the table with a book, and shouted for silence. She got it. People always automatically obeyed Moira! She had that kind of voice, crisp and curt. The meeting began. Darrell was called upon to explain the pantomime and the characters in it. She was also asked to read the first act. Very flushed and excited she gave the listening fifth-formers a short summary of the pantomime. They listened with much approval. It sounded very good. Then, stammering a little at first, Darrell read the first act of the pantomime, just as she had written it, dialogue, songs, stage directions and everything. There was a deep silence as she read on. “That’s the end of the act,” she said at last, raising her eyes half-shyly, not absolutely certain if she had carried her listeners with her or not. There was no doubt about that a second later. The girls stamped and clapped and cheered. Darrell was so pleased that she felt hot with joy, and had to wipe her forehead dry. Moira banged for silence. “Well, you’ve all heard what a jolly good play Darrell and Sally have got together,” she said. “Darrell did most of it — but Sally was splendid too. You can tell it will bring the house down if we can produce it properly.” “Who’s going to produce it?” called Betty. “I am,” said Moira, promptly. “Any objections?” There were quite a lot of doubtful faces. Nobody really doubted Moira’s ability to produce a pantomime — but they did doubt her talent for getting the

best out of people. She rubbed them up the wrong way so much. “I think it would be better to have two producers,” said somebody. “Right,” said Moira, promptly. She didn’t mind how many there were so long as she was one of them. She meant to be the real producer, anyway. “Who do you want?” “Betty, Betty!” shrieked half the fifth-formers. It was obviously planned. Moira frowned a little. Betty! Alicia’s laughing, careless, clever friend. “Yes — let Betty,” said Alicia, suddenly. She felt that she wouldn’t be able to work happily with Moira alone for long. But two producers would be easier. She could consult with Betty all the time! Betty grinned round and took her place on one of the committee chairs. “Thanks,” she said. “I’ll produce the goods all right!” “Now to choose the characters,” said Moira. “We have more or less worked them out. I’ll read them.” Gwendoline and Maureen held their breath. Was there any hope of being Cinderella? Or even the Fairy-Godmother? Or the Prince? Moira read the list out. “Cinderella — Mary-Lou.” There was a gasp from Mary-Lou, Gwen and Maureen — of amazement from Mary-Lou and disappointment from the others. “Oh — I can’t!” said Mary-Lou. “You can,” said Darrell. “We want someone sort of pathetic-looking — a bit scary — someone appealing and big-eyed — and it has to be someone who can act and someone who can sing.” “And you’re exactly right for the part,” said Sally. “That’s right — make your eyes big and scared, Mary-Lou — you’re poor little Cinderella to the life!” Everyone laughed. Mary-Lou had to laugh, too. Her eyes began to shine. “I never thought you’d choose me,” she said. “Well, we have,” said Darrell. “You can act very well and you’ve a nice singing voice, though it’s not very loud.” “The Prince — Mavis,” said Moira. Everyone knew that already. The Prince had a lot of singing to do and Mavis would do that wonderfully well. Her voice was beautiful again, and Irene had written some lovely tunes for her to sing to Darrell’s words. Everyone clapped. “The Baron — Bill,” said Moira, and there was a delighted laugh. “Oh yes! Bill stamping about in riding-breeches, calling for her horse!” cried Clarissa in delight.

“Fairy-godmother — Louella,” said Moira. Everyone looked at Louella who came from South Tower, and had a tall, slim figure, golden curls and a good clear voice. “Hurray!” shouted all the South Tower girls, glad to have someone from their tower in a good part. “Buttons — the little boots — Rachel,” went on Moira. “Rachel can act jolly well and she’s had the same part before, so she ought to do it well.” “Who are the Ugly Sisters?” called a voice. Gwen’s heart suddenly gave a lurch and sank down into her shoes. Ugly Sisters! Suppose she had been chosen to be one? She couldn’t, couldn’t bear it. She saw Alicia gating at her maliciously and felt sure she had been chosen. She simply couldn’t bear it. She got up, saying she didn’t feel very well, and went towards the door. Alicia smiled. She could read Gwen’s thoughts extremely well. Gwen was going because she was afraid her name would be read out next as one of the Ugly Sisters. “Your heart worrying you again?” called one of the West Tower girls to Gwen, and everyone laughed. Gwen disappeared. She made up her mind not to go back till the meeting was over. Maureen was also worried about the same thing. She thought about her rabbit-teeth. Moira might think she was made for an Ugly Sister. Why, oh why hadn’t she been sensible and had her teeth straightened when she had a chance? She drew her upper lip over them to try and hide them. “Ugly Sisters — Pat — and Rita!” said Moira, and there was an instant roar of approval from the girls. Pat and Rita looked round humorously. They were twins, and certainly not ugly — but they had upturned comical noses, eyes very wide-set, and hair that flew out in a shock. They were comical, good at acting, and would make a splendid pair of Ugly Sisters. “Thanks, Moira!” called out Rita. “That suits us down to the ground — right down to our big ugly feet!” “Demon King — Alicia” said Moira, and again there was a great roar of approval, led by a delighted Betty. Moira beamed round, looking quite pleasant. “Alicia’s going to do juggling and conjuring as well as leap about the stage like a demon,” she said. “I can’t think of anyone else who could be a demon so successfully.” More shrieks of approval. Miss James, not far off, wondered what in the world was happening. It sounded as if about fifty thousand spectators at a

football match were yelling themselves hoarse. “Jolly good casting!” called somebody. “Go on!” “Well, now we come to the servants and courtiers and so on,” said Moira. “That means the rest of you. There’s a part for everyone, even though it may be small.” “What about Darrell?” called a voice. “Darrell’s written the play and will help in the producing,” said Moira. “Sally will help her too. They won’t be in it because their hands will be full. We’re going to ask Pop if he’ll do the electricity part — he’ll love it.” Pop was the handyman of the school, very much beloved, and quite invaluable on these occasions. “It all sounds jolly good,” said Winnie. “When are the rehearsals?” “Every Tuesday evening, and on Friday evenings too for those who want an extra one,” said Moira. “And the parts will be sent out to everyone tomorrow. For goodness' sake learn them as quickly as you can. It’s hopeless to keep reading them when we rehearse — you can’t act properly like that.” “You forgot to say that Irene’s done the music and Belinda the decorations and Janet’s doing the costumes,” said Darrell. “No, I hadn’t,” said Moira, quickly. “I was coming to that. Anyway, everyone knows it. By the way, we’ll be glad of any help for Janet in making the costumes. Anyone good with their needle will be welcomed. Janet will give out the work if you’ll be decent enough to ask her for it.” More clapping. Then a spate of excited talk. This was going to be the best pantomime ever! It would make the whole school sit up! It would bring the house down. “There’s never been a show before where the girls wrote the songs and words and music themselves,” said Winnie. “My word — won’t the Grayling open her eyes!” A bell went somewhere and everyone got up. “We’ll be at rehearsal! We’ll learn our parts! Mavis, what about the singing? Are you going to train the chorus?” Chattering and calling they all went to their own Towers. Darrell sighed happily and put her arm through Sally’s. “This is about the most exciting thing I’ve ever done in my life, Sally,” she said. “You know — I shouldn’t be surprised if I don’t turn out to be a writer, one of these days!”

Felicity’s first match FELICITY came to see Darrell the next day about the match with Wellsbrough School. She looked with bright eyes at her fifth-form sister. “I say! Fancy me playing in the Fourth School Team! I thought perhaps I might by the end of the term, with luck — but next week. Thanks awfully for putting me in, Darrell.” “Well, actually — it was Moira who insisted on putting you in,” said Darrell. “I wanted to — and yet I just wondered if I was thinking favourably of you because you were my sister, you know. Then Moira said you must certainly go in, and in you went.” “June’s awfully disappointed she’s not in,” said Felicity. “She’s been practising like anything, Darrell. She pretends she doesn’t care, but she does really. I wish she wouldn’t say such awful things about you fifth-formers all the time — she really seems to have got her knife into you. It’s horrid.” “She’ll get over it,” said Darrell. “We don’t lose any sleep over young June, I can tell you!” “Will you be able to come and watch the Wellsbrough match?” asked Felicity, eagerly. “Oh do. I shall play ever so much better if you’re there, yelling and cheering.” “Of course I’ll come,” said Darrell. “And I’ll yell like anything — so just be sure you give me something to yell for!” The first-formers prayed for a fine day for their match. It was to be at home, not away, and as it was the first time they had played Wellsbrough Fourth Team, they were really excited about it. The senior school smiled to see the “babies” so excited. They remembered how they, too, had felt when they had the delight of playing in an important match for the very first time. “Nice to see them so keen,” said Moira to Darrell. “I think I’ll get my lacrosse stick and go and give them a bit of coaching before dinner. I’ve got half an hour.” “I’ll fetch your stick,” said Catherine at once, in her usual doormat voice. “No thanks, Saint Catherine,” answered Moira, “I’m still able to walk to the locker and reach my own stick.” The day of the match dawned bright and clear, a magnificent October day. The trees round the playing fields shone red and brown and yellow in their

autumn colours. The breeze from the sea was salty and crisp. All the girls rejoiced as they got up that morning and looked out of the window. Malory Towers was so lovely on a day like this. The happiest girls, of course, were the small first-formers, excited twelve- year-olds who talked to one another at the tops of their voices without stopping. How they ever heard what anyone else said was a mystery. Miss Potts, the first-form mistress, was lenient that morning. So was Mam’zelle who was always excited herself when any of her classes were. “Well, so today is your match?” she said to the first form. “You will play well, n’est-ce pas? You will win all the goals. I shall come to watch. And for the girl that wins a goal...” “Shoots a goal, Mam’zelle,” said Susan. “Shoots! Ah yes — but you have no gun to shoot a goal,” said Mam’zelle, who never could learn the language of sports. “Well, well — for the girl who shoots a goal I will say “no French prep tomorrow”!” “But, Mam’zelle — that’s not fair!” cried a dozen voices. “We’re not all in the match — only Felicity and Susan and Vera.” “Ah, I forgot,” said Mam’zelle. “That is so. Then what shall I say?” “Say you’ll let us all off French prep for the rest of the week if we win!” called Felicity. “No, no,” said Mam’zelle, shocked. “For one day only I said. Now, it is understood — if you win your match no French prep for you tomorrow!” “You’re a peach, Mam’zelle,” called a delighted first-former. “Comment!” said Mam’zelle, astonished. “You call me a peach. Never have I...” “It’s all right, Mam’zelle — it’s a compliment,” said Felicity. Peaches are wizard.” Mam’zelle gave it up. “Now — we will have our verbs,” she said. “Page thirty-five, s'il vous plaît, and no more talking.” The Wellsbrough girls arrived at twenty past two in a big coach. They were rather older than the Malory Towers team, and seemed much bigger. The Malory Towers girls felt a little nervous. The two captains shook hands and the teams nodded and smiled at one another. The games mistress blew her whistle and the teams came round her. The captains tossed for ends. The teams took their positions in the field. Felicity gripped her lacrosse stick as if it might leap from her hand if she didn’t. She put on a grim expression that

made everyone who saw it smile. Her knees shook just a little! How she hoped nobody could see them. It was silly to be nervous in a match — just the time not to be! “Good luck,” whispered Susan, who was not far off. “Shoot a goal!” Felicity nodded, still looking grim. Darrell and Moira and Sally were together, watching. Most of the other fifth- formers were there, too, because many of them helped the younger ones and were interested in their play. A good sprinkling of the other forms were also there. Wellsbrough was a splendid school for sport and usually sent out first- class match-teams. “Your small sister looks pretty fierce,” said Sally to Darrell. “Look at her! She means to do and dare all right!” The match began. The ball shot out down the field, and the girls began to race after it, picking it up in their nets, throwing it, catching it, knocking it out again, picking it up, tackling one another and making the onlookers yell with excitement. The Wellsbrough team shot the first goal. It went clean into the net, quite impossible to stop. The twelve-year-old goalkeeper was very downcast. One to Wellsbrough! Felicity gritted her teeth. Wellsbrough had the lead now. She shot a look at Darrell. Yes, there she was, never taking her eyes off the ball. Felicity longed to do something really spectacular and make Darrell dance and cheer with pride. But the Wellsbrough team was tough, and nobody could do anything very startling. Always there was a Wellsbrough girl ready to knock the ball out of a Malory Towers lacrosse net as soon as it was there! And always there was a Wellsbrough girl who seemed to be able to run faster than any of the home team. It was maddening. Felicity and Susan became very out of breath and panted and puffed as they tore down the field, their hearts beating like pistons! And then Susan shot a goal! It was most unexpected. She was tearing down the field, far from the goal, with two Wellsbrough girls after her, and Felicity running up to catch the ball if Susan passed it. Susan took a quick glance round to see if Felicity was ready to catch it. A Wellsbrough girl ran up beside Felicity, a tall girl who would probably take the ball instead of Felicity, if it was passed. Blow! On the spur of the moment Susan flung the ball at the distant goal. It was a powerful throw, and the ball flew straight. The goalkeeper rushed out to catch it

— but she missed, and the ball bounced right into the very middle of the net! Cheers rang out from the spectators. Darrell yelled too. Then she turned to Moira. “A very lucky goal. Those far throws don’t usually come off — but that one did. One all!” It was almost half time. One minute to go. The ball came to Felicity and she caught it deftly in her net, jumping high in the air for it. “Good!” yelled everyone, pleased to see such a fine catch. Felicity sped off with it and passed to Rita. She didn’t see a big Wellsbrough girl running up to her and collided heavily. Over she went on the ground and felt an agonizing pain in her right ankle. It was so sharp that she couldn’t get up. Things went black around her. Poor Felicity was horrified. No, no, she mustn’t faint! Not on the playing-field in the middle of the match! She couldn’t! The whistle went for half-time. Felicity heaved a long shaky sigh of relief. Five minutes” rest. Would her ankle be all right?

She wasn’t going to faint after all! She sat there on the grass, pretending to fiddle with her lacrosse boot till she felt a little better. Susan came running up. “I say — you went over with a terrific wallop. Did you hurt yourself?” “Twisted my ankle a little,” said Felicity. She looked very white and Susan was alarmed. The games mistress came up. “Twisted your ankle? Let’s have a look.” She undid the boot quickly and looked at Felicity’s foot, pressing it and turning it. “It’s an ordinary twist,” she said. “Horribly painful when it happens, I know. You’d better come off and let your reserve play.” Felicity was almost in tears. Darrell came running up. “Has she twisted her ankle? Oh, she often does that. Her right ankle’s a bit weak. Daddy always tells her to bandage it fairly tightly — round the foot just here — and walk on it immediately, not lie up.” “Well, I’m agreeable to that if Felicity can stand on it all right, and run,” said the mistress. “It’s up to her.” Susan brought Felicity a lemon quarter to suck. She began to feel much better and colour came back into her checks. She stood up, testing her ankle gingerly. Then she smiled. “It’s all right. It will be black and blue tomorrow, but there’s nothing really wrong. In a few minutes time it will be better.” The games mistress bound the foot up tightly, and Felicity put on her boot again. The foot had swollen a little but not much. Chewing her lemon, Felicity hobbled about for a minute or two, feeling the foot getting better and better as she went. “Nothing much wrong,” reported the games mistress. “A nasty twist — but Felicity’s a determined little character, and where another girl would moan and make a fuss and go off limping, she’s going to go on playing. It won’t do the foot any harm — probably do it good.” The whistle went again, after a little longer half-time to give Felicity a chance to recover. The girls took their places, all at the opposite ends this time. Susan was a marvel that second half. She saved Felicity all she could, and leapt about and ran like a mad March hare! Everyone cheered her. Felicity’s foot ceased to hurt her. She forgot about it. She began to run again, and made another wonderful catch that set all the spectators cheering. She tackled a Wellsbrough girl and got the ball away. She ran for goal. “Shoot!” yelled everyone. “SHOOT!”

But, before she could shoot, the ball was knocked out of her net and a Wellsbrough girl was speeding back down the field with it. She passed the ball on, and it was caught and passed again, and shot straight at the Malory Towers goal. “Save it, save it!” yelled everyone in agony. The goalkeeper stood there like a rock. She made a wild slash with her lacrosse stick and miraculously caught the hard rubber ball, flinging it out to a Malory Towers girl at once. “No goal, no goal!” sang the girls in delight. “Well saved, Hilda, well saved!” “Looks as if it’s going to be a draw,” said Moira, glancing at her watch. “Only two minutes more. Felicity’s limping just a bit again. Plucky kid to run on as she did.” “She’s got the ball!” cried Darrell, clutching Moira in excitement. “Another marvellous catch! My word, practice does pay! She catches better than anyone. Look, she’s kept it!” Felicity was running down the field with the ball. She was tackled by a Wellsbrough girl, dodged, turned herself right round and passed to Susan. Susan caught it and immediately passed it back to Felicity, seeing two of the enemy coming straight at her. Felicity nearly didn’t catch it, because it was such a high throw, but by leaping like a goat she got it into the tip of her net, and it ran down safely. Then off she went, tearing down the field, her face set grimly. “SHOOT!” yelled the girls. “SHOOOOOOOOOOOT!” And she shot, just as the stick of an enemy came crashing down to get the ball from her. The ball shot out high in the air, and the goalkeeper rushed out to get it. She missed it — and the ball bounced and ran slowly and deliberately into a corner of the goal, where it lay still as if quite tired out with the game. “GOAL!” yelled everyone, and went completely mad. Moira, Sally and Darrell swung each other round in a most undignified way for fifth-formers, Bill and Clarissa did a kind of barn-dance together, and as for the lower school, they began a most deafening chant that made Mam’zelle put her hands to her ears at once. “Well — done — Felici — TEEEEEE! Well — done — Felici — TEEEEEE!” The whistle went for time. The teams trooped off, red in the face, panting, laughing and happy. Felicity was limping a little, but so happy and proud that

she wouldn’t have noticed if she had limped with both feet! Darrell thumped her on the back. “You got the winning goal, my girl! You did the trick! Gosh, I’m proud of you!” Moira thumped her, too. “I’m glad we put you into the team, Felicity! You’ll be there for the rest of the term. You’ve got team-spirit all right. You play for your side all the time.” June was just nearby. She heard what Moira said, and felt sure she was saying it so that she might hear. She turned away, sick at heart. She might have been playing in the match — she might even have shot that winning goal. But Felicity had instead. June couldn’t go and thump Felicity on the back or congratulate her. She was jealous. Felicity was too happy to notice little things like that. She went off with her team and the Wellsbrough girls to a “smashing” tea. Anyone seeing the piles of sandwiches, buttered and jammy buns, and slices of fruit cake piled high on big dishes would think that surely it would need twenty teams to eat all that! But the two teams managed it all between them quite easily. What fun it all was! What a noise of shouting and laughter and whole-hearted merriment. “School’s smashing,” thought Felicity, munching her fourth jammy bun. “Super! Wizard!”

Half-term REHEARSALS began. A Tuesday and a Friday came, and another Tuesday — three rehearsals already! “I think it’s going well, don’t you?” said Darrell to Sally. “Little Mary-Lou knows her part already — she must have slaved at learning it, because Cinderella has almost more to say then anyone.” “Yes — and she’s going to look the part exactly,” said Sally. “Who would ever have thought that timid little Mary-Lou, who was scared even of her own shadow when she was in the lower school, would be able to take the principal part in a pantomime now!” “Shows what Malory Towers does to you!” said Darrell. “Still, I suppose any good boarding-school does the same things — makes you stand on your own feet, rubs off your corners, teaches you common-sense, makes you accept responsibility.” “It depends on the person!” said Sally, with a laugh. “It doesn’t seem to have taught dear Gwendoline Mary much.” “Well, I suppose there must be exceptions,” said Darrell. “She’s about the only one that’s come up the school with us who doesn’t seem to have learnt anything sensible at all.” “It was a shock when we told her she and Maureen might be twins!” said Sally. “She really saw herself then as others see her. Anyway, I think she is better than she was — especially since she’s had to go in for games and gym properly.” “She doesn’t like being a servant in the play,” said Darrell, with one of her wide grins. “Nor does Maureen. They’ve neither of them got a word to say in the play, and not much to do either — but as they both act so badly, it’s just as well!” “It’s an awful blow to their pride,” said Sally. “I say — Bill’s going to be good, isn’t she? She’s the surly baron to the life as she strides about the stage in her riding-boots, and slaps her whip against her side!” Yes — the play was really going quite well. The fifth-formers were almost sorry that it was half-term weekend because it meant missing a rehearsal that Friday. Still, it would be lovely to see their people again. Darrell had a lot to tell her parents — and so had Felicity. Felicity’s ankle had certainly been black and blue the next day, and she

showed it off proudly to the first-formers. What a marvel to shoot a goal when you had an ankle like that! Felicity was quite the heroine of the lower school. Half-term came and went, all too quickly. Darrell’s father and mother came, and had to listen to two excited girls both talking at once about pantomimes and matches. “We’re rehearsing well, and my words sound fine, and you should see Mary- Lou as Cinderella,” cried Darrell at the top of her voice. “And when I shot the winning goal I simply couldn’t believe it, but there was such a terrific noise of cheering and shouting that I had to,” shouted Felicity, at the same time as Darrell. Her mother smiled. What a pair! Four of Bill’s brothers came to see her, and her mother as well, all on horseback! It was the boys” half-term, too, and Bill rode off happily, taking Clarissa with her. “What a lovely way to spend half-term,” thought Clarissa, “riding all day long, and having a picnic lunch and tea!” Gwendoline watched her go jealously. If she had been sensible last term she could have been Clarissa’s friend. But she hadn’t been sensible — and now she was stuck with that awful Maureen! The dreadful thing was that Maureen’s parents couldn’t come at the last moment, so Maureen had no one to go out with. She went to tell Gwen. “Oh, Gwen — are you taking anyone out with you? My parents can’t come. I’m so bitterly disappointed.” Gwen stared at her crossly. This would happen, of course. Now she would have to have Maureen tagging about with her all day long. She introduced Maureen to her mother and Miss Winter, her old governess, with a very bad grace. “Mother — this is Maureen. Her parents haven’t come today, so I said she could come with us.” “Of course, of course!” said Mrs. Lacy at once. As usual she was dressed in far too fussy things, with veils and scarves and bits and pieces flying everywhere. “Poor child — what a shame!” Maureen warmed to Mrs. Lacy. Here was someone she could talk to easily. She gave her silly little laugh. “Oh, Mrs. Lacy, it’s so kind of you to let me come with you. It’s my first term here, you know — and really I don’t know what I’d have done without dear Gwendoline. She’s really been a friend in need.” “I’m sure she has,” said Mrs. Lacy. “Gwendoline is always so kind. No wonder she is so popular.”

“And do you know, the girls say Gwen and I ought to be friends, because we’re so alike,” chattered Maureen, tucking the rug round herself in the car. “We’ve both got golden hair and blue eyes, and they say we’ve got the same ways, too. Aren’t I lucky to have found a twin!” This was the kind of conversation that both Miss Winter and Mrs. Lacy understood and liked. Miss Winter made quite a fuss of Maureen, and Gwen didn’t like that at all. Gwen hoped that Maureen would say nice things about her as she was taking her out for the day. But Maureen didn’t. Maureen talked about herself the whole time. She described her home, her family, her dogs, her garden, all the holidays she had ever had, and all the illnesses. Gwen couldn’t get a word in, and after a time she fell silent and sulked. “What a bore Maureen is! How silly! How selfish and conceited!” thought Gwen, sulkily. “What a silly affected laugh.” Her mother made a most terrifying remark at lunch-time. She beamed round at both girls. “You know, except that Maureen’s teeth stick out a little, you two are really very alike! You’ve got Gwen’s lovely way of chattering all about your doings, Maureen — and even your laugh is the same — isn’t it, Miss Winter?” “Yes, they really might be sisters,” agreed Miss Winter, smiling kindly at the delighted Maureen. “Their ways are exactly the same, and even their voices.” Gwen felt quite sick. She could hardly eat any dinner. If her mother and Miss Winter, who really adored her, honestly thought that that awful, boring, conceited Maureen was exactly like her, then she, Gwen, must be a really appalling person too. No wonder she wasn’t popular. No wonder the girls laughed at her. That day was a really terrible one for Gwen. To sit by somebody who was supposed to be like her, to hear her own silly laugh uttered by Maureen, to listen to her everlasting, dull tales about herself, and see her own shallow, insincere smile spread over Maureen’s face was a horrible experience. “I shall never forget this,” thought poor Gwen. “Never. I’ll be jolly careful how I behave in future. And I’ll alter my laugh straightaway. Do I really laugh like that? Yes — I do. Oh, I do feel so ashamed.” “Gwen’s very quiet,” said Miss Winter, at last. “Anything wrong, Gwen?” “Oh, poor Gwen — she’s so disappointed because she’s not chosen for Cinderella,” said Maureen, swiftly. “Well, so were you!” retorted Gwen.” You thought you were going to be. Moira said so!”

“Girls, girls! Don’t talk like that to one another,” said Mrs. Lacy, shocked. “Why — I quite thought Gwen was to be Cinderella!” “Yes — you said in your letter that most of the girls wanted you to be,” said Miss Winter. “Why didn’t they choose you, Gwen? You would have made a fine Cinderella! It’s a shame.” “For the same reason they didn’t choose Maureen, I suppose,” said Gwen, sulkily. “They didn’t think we were good enough.” “Well, of course, I couldn’t possibly expect to be chosen — it’s only my first term,” said Maureen, quickly. “You did expect to be!” said Gwen. “Oh no, Gwen dear,” said Maureen, and laughed her silly laugh. It grated on Gwen’s exasperated nerves. “I shall go mad if you laugh that laugh again,” she said, savagely. There, was a surprised silence. Maureen broke it by laughing again and Gwen clenched her fists. “Poor Gwen!” said Maureen. “Honestly, Mrs. Lacy, it was a shame they didn’t choose her — it really did upset her. And when we go to rehearsals it’s, maddening for Gwen to see Mary-Lou as Cinderella, whilst she’s only a servant, and says nothing at all — not a single word in the whole of the play!” “Darling!” said Mrs. Lacy, comfortingly, to the glowering Gwen. “I’m so sorry! I don’t like to see Mother’s girl sad.” “Stop it, Mother,” said Gwen. “Let’s change the subject.” Mrs. Lacy was very hurt. She turned away from this unusually surly Gwen, and began to talk to Maureen, being extra nice to her so as to show Gwen that she was very displeased with her. Miss Winter did the same, and Maureen blossomed out even more under this sunshine of flattery and rapt attention. Poor Gwen had to listen to more and more tales of Maureen’s life, and to hear her silly laugh more and more often! The day came to an end at last. Maureen thanked Mrs. Lacy and Miss Winter prettily, tucked her arm into Gwen’s, and went off, waving. “I’ll look after Gwen for you!” she called back. “Well, what a charming child — and what a nice friend she’d make for Gwen,” said Mrs. Lacy, driving off. “It’s a pity Gwen’s so upset about that Cinderella business. Maureen must have been just as disappointed.” “Yes. I’m afraid dear Gwen’s not taking that very bravely,” said Miss Winter. “Never mind, she has that nice child Maureen to set her a good example.”

“I think we ought to ask Maureen to stay for a week or two in the Christmas holidays,” said Mrs. Lacy. “It would be so nice for Gwen.” Poor Gwen! If she had heard all this she would have been furious. She was to get a great shock when her mother’s letter came, telling her she had invited Maureen to stay for a week in the holidays. She pulled her arm away from Maureen’s as soon as the car drove out of sight. She turned on her. “Well — I hope you’ve enjoyed spoiling my whole day, you beast! Telling your awful tales, and laughing your awful laugh, and sucking up like anything. Ugh!” “But, Gwen — they said I was so like you,” said Maureen, looking puzzled. “They liked me. How can I be so awful if I’m exactly like you?” Gwen didn’t tell her. It was a thing she really couldn’t bear to think about.

The dictator THE days began to fly after half-term. Darrell and Sally got fits of panic quite regularly whenever they thought of the pantomime being performed to the parents at the end of term. “We’ll NEVER be ready!” groaned Darrell. “No. We never imagined there’d be so much to do,” said Sally, seriously. “If only everyone knew their parts like Mary-Lou and Mavis,” said Darrell. “Louella drives me mad. She forgets the words of her songs every single time. I wish we hadn’t chosen her to be the fairy-godmother now.” “Oh, she’ll be all right on the night,” said Sally. “She was like that in the play she was in last year — never knew a word till the last night, and then was quite perfect.” “Well, I only hope you’re right,” groaned Darrell, amusing the steady Sally very much. Darrell went down into the dumps easily over her precious pantomime. Sally was very good for her. She refused to think anyone was hopeless, and was always ready with something comforting to say. “Alicia’s marvellous, isn’t she?” she said, after a pause, looking up from the work she was doing. “Yes. She’s a born demon,” said Darrell, with a giggle. “I get quite scared of her sometimes, the way she leaps about the stage and yells. And her conjuring is miraculous.” “So is her juggling,” said Sally. “And she’s practised that demon-sounding voice till it really sounds quite uncanny.” Daphne joined in with a laugh. “Yes — and when she suddenly produces it in French class, the amazement on Mam’zelle’s face is too good to be true.” “Alicia’s a scream,” said Darrell. “She’ll be the best in the show, I think.” There was a little silence. “There’s only one thing that really worries me,” said Darrell, in a low voice. “And that’s Moira. She’s not hitting it off with Betty at all — or Alicia either. She’s bossing them too much.” “Yes. She can’t seem to help it,” said Sally. “But it’s idiotic to be bossy with people like Betty and Alicia. After all, Betty’s co-producer, and Alicia’s a terrific help to them.” Darrell was right to worry about Moira. Moira was intensely keen on getting the whole pantomime perfect, and made everyone work like slaves under her command. The girls resented it. Louella purposely forgot her words in order to

annoy Moira. Bill purposely came in at the wrong side each time to make her shout. And Moira couldn’t see that she was handling things in the wrong way. She was a wonderful organizer, certainly. She had gone into every detail, worked out every scene with Darrell, proved herself most ingenious, and given very wise advice. But she did it all in the wrong way. She was aggressive and opinionated, she contradicted people flatly, and she found fault too much and praised too little. “You’re a dictator, Moira,” Bill informed her at one rehearsal. “I don’t take kindly to dictators. Nor does anyone else here.” “If you think you can produce a first-class pantomime without giving a few orders and finding a few faults, you’re wrong,” said Moira, furiously. “I don’t,” said Bill, mildly. “I never said I did. But you can do all that without being a dictator. You sit up there like a warlord and chivy us all along unmercifully. I quite expect to be sent to prison sometimes.” “Let’s get on,” said Darrell, afraid that Moira was going to blow up. Arguing always wasted so much time. “We’ll take that bit again. Mavis, begin your song.” Mavis sang, and a silence fell. What a lovely voice she had, low and pure and sweet. That would make the audience gasp! It wasn’t often that a schoolgirl had a voice like that. “We shall miss her when she leaves, and goes to study music and singing at the College of Music,” thought Darrell. Mavis’s song came to an end, and she stepped back to let Buttons come on and do her bit. Yes, rehearsals were hard work, but they were fun, too. Sally and Darrell began to feel more confidence as time went on. Darrell surprised herself at times, when she suddenly saw something wrong with the lines of the play, and hurried to alter them. “I know just what’s wrong and what’s right now,” she thought, as she scribbled new lines. “I adore doing this pantomime — feeling it’s mine because I wrote it all. I want to do a play next. Could I write one — perhaps just a short one for next term? Shall I ever, ever be a well-known playwright?” Gwen was a sulky actor. She hated being stuck at the back in the chorus, dressed as a servant, with nothing to say or do by herself. Maureen was much more cheerful about it. She drove Gwen nearly mad by some of the things she said. “Of course, I don’t mind having such a small, insignificant part,” she said. “But it’s different for you, Gwen. You’ve been here for years, and I’ve not been

even one term. You ought to have had a good part. I couldn’t expect one.” Gwen growled. “I shall write and tell your mother you are awfully good as a servant,” went on Maureen. “I do think it’s so kind of her to ask me to stay. Won’t it be fun to be together so much, Gwen, in the hols?” Gwen didn’t answer. She was beginning to be a little afraid of Maureen. Maureen was silly and affected — but she had a cunning and sly side to her nature, too. So had Gwen, of course. She recognized it easily in Maureen because it was in herself too. That was the dreadful part of this forced friendship with Maureen. It was like being friends with yourself, and knowing all the false, silly, sly things that went on in your own mind. Gwen did try to alter herself a bit, so that she wouldn’t be like Maureen. She stopped her silly laugh and her wide, false smile. She stopped talking about herself too. To her enormous annoyance nobody seemed to notice it. As a matter of fact, they took so little notice of her at all that if she had suddenly grown a moustache and worn riding-boots they wouldn’t have bothered. Who wanted to pay any attention to Gwen? She had never done anything to make herself liked or trusted, so the best thing to do was to ignore her. And ignore her they did, though poor Gwen was doing her best to be sensible and likeable now. She had left it a bit too late! Two more weeks went by, and then suddenly a row flared up at a rehearsal. It began over a very silly little thing indeed, as big rows often do. Alicia took it into her head to evolve a kind of demon-chant whenever she appeared or disappeared on the stage. She only thought of it a few minutes before rehearsal, and hadn’t time to tell Darrell or Sally, so she thought she would just introduce the weird little chant without warning. And she did. She appeared with her sudden, surprising leaps, chanting eerily. “Oo-woo-la, woo-la, riminy-ree, oo-woo-la...” Moira rapped loudly. The rehearsal stopped. “Alicia! What on earth’s that? It’s not in the script, as you very well know.” “Of course I know,” said Alicia, annoyed as always by Moira’s unnecessarily sharp tone. “I hadn’t time to ask Darrell to put it in. I only thought of it just now.” “Well, we can’t insert new things now,” said Moira, coldly. “And in any case it’s not for you to suggest extraordinary chants like that. If we’d wanted one we’d have got Darrell to write one in.”

“Look here, Moira,” said Alicia, losing her temper rapidly, Tm not a first- former. I’m...” Darrell interrupted hastily. “Moira, I think that’s really a good idea of Alicia’s. What do you think, Betty? I never thought of a chant like that for the demon — but it does sound very demon-like, and...” “Yes,” said Betty, anxious to go against Moira, and back up her friend Alicia. “Yes. It’s a jolly fine idea. We’ll have it.” Moira went up in smoke at once, in a way that a demon king himself might have envied! She stood up, glowering. “You only say that, Betty, because you’re Alicia’s friend, and...” “Shucks,” said Betty, rudely. Moira went on without stopping. “And Darrell only says it because she always backs up Alicia, too. Well, I’m chief producer, and I’m going to have my way over this. There’ll be no demon-chant. Get on with the rehearsal.” Alicia was white. “I’m not performing any more tonight,” she said, in a cold and angry voice. “You’re quite stealing the performance yourself, aren’t you, Moira? Wonderful demon queen you’d make, with that look on your face!” It was so exactly what Moira did look like that there were quite a lot of guffaws. Alicia walked off the stage. Darrell was petrified. Sally took charge. “Who’s on next? Come on, Bill.” Bill came on the wrong side as usual, determined to flout Moira, too. She stalked in, her hands in her breeches pockets. She always wore riding things when she rehearsed. She said it made her feel more baronial! “BILL! You know perfectly well you don’t come in that side,” shouted Moira, who also knew perfectly well that it was just Bill’s way of showing that she sided with Alicia. Bill stood there like a dummy. “Go back and come in the right side,” ordered Moira, harshly. “No. I’m going riding,” said Bill. Quite simply and mildly, just like that! She walked off, humming, and Moira heard her calling to Clarissa. “Clarissa! Come on! I’m not feeling fit for acting tonight. I want to do something energetic!” “This is silly,” said Betty. “Everyone walking off. Let me take charge, Moira. You’re rubbing them up the wrong way tonight.” Moira shoved her roughly aside. She had a wicked temper when she was really roused, the same kind of temper as her sister Bridget, who liked to smash things up if she really felt mad!

“I’m going on,” she said, between her teeth. “Once we let things get out of hand, we’re done. We’ll take the servants” chorus.” The chorus came on, giggling and ready to play up Moira if they could. They all resented her hard ways, even though they admitted that she could get things done and done well. Moira picked on Gwen and Maureen at once. “You two! You’re not singing! Oh no, you’re not! So don’t say you were. You’re pretty awful every time, and you’d better pull your socks up now, or you won’t even be in the chorus. I’ll get some third-formers instead.” “I say! Do shut up, Moira,” said Betty, in a low tone. “You know you’ll never do much with those two, and certainly not if you go for them like that.” Moira took not the slightest notice. “Did you hear what I said, Gwen and Maureen?” she called. “Come out in front and sing by yourselves, so that I shall see if you do know the words.” Gwen hesitated. She longed to cheek Moira, or walk off as Bill had done. But she was afraid of Moira’s sharp tongue. “Very well then — stop where you are and sing there,” said Moira, suddenly realizing that she couldn’t very well go and drag Gwen and Maureen to the front by main force. “Music, Irene!” Irene, looking very glum and disgusted, played the servants' chorus. Gwen’s reedy voice piped up and Maureen mumbled the words, too. “Stop,” said Moira, and the music stopped. “You don’t know the words and you don’t know the tune — and it is about the seventh rehearsal. You’re the worst in the whole play, both of you.” Gwen and Maureen were furious at being humiliated like this in front of everyone. But still they dared not answer Moira back. They were both little cowards when it came to anything like that. They stood mute, and Gwen felt the usual easy tears welling up in her eyes. Needless to say the rehearsal was not a success. Everyone sighed with relief when the supper-bell went. Moira went off scowling. Many of the girls sent scowls after her in imitation. “Beast,” said Daphne. “She gets worse!” “She’s worried because she has so many rehearsals to take, and so much to do,” said Darrell, trying to stop the general grumbling. It made things so difficult if the girls didn’t come willingly and cheerfully to rehearsal. It was her pantomime, her masterpiece — she couldn’t let their resentful feelings for Moira spoil it all.

“Saint Darrell!” called Betty, in delight. Darrell grinned. “I’m no saint!” she said. “I’m as hot and bothered as everyone else. But what’s the good of messing up the show just because we’ve got a producer who can’t keep her temper?” “Let’s chuck her out,” suggested somebody. “We’ve got Betty — and there’s you and Sally and Alicia at hand to help. We don’t need Moira now the donkey- work is done.” “We can’t possibly chuck her out,” said Darrell, decidedly. “It would be mean after she’s got it more or less into shape. I do honestly think she’s irritable because she’s so interested in getting it perfect, and every little thing upsets her. Give her another chance!” “All right,” agreed everyone. “But only ONE more chance, Darrell”

The anonymous letters DARRELL spoke to Moira rather nervously about the failure of the last rehearsal. “We all know you’re a bit overworked because you’ve done so much for the show already,” she began. “Oh, do be quiet. You sound like Saint Catherine,” said Moira, with a glance at the nearby Catherine. “She’s already tried to make a hundred silly excuses for me. I hate people who suck up. I wasn’t angry because I was tired or overworked. I was angry because people like Alicia and Bill and Gwen and Maureen were defiant and rude and silly and lazy and didn’t back me up. Now you know.” “Well, look, Moira — for goodness” sake be more understanding and patient next time,” said Darrell, holding tight on to her own temper. She felt it suddenly rising up. Oh dear! It would never do for two of them to get furious! “Will you let me get on with my French or not?” asked Moira, in a dangerous voice. Darrell gave it up. The next rehearsal was a little better, but not much. Darrell had insisted on writing in Alicia’s chant, and Moira had frowned but said very little. After all, the script was Darrell’s business. Moira didn’t find any fault with either Alicia or Bill this time. She didn’t need to. Both were admirable and knew their parts well. Bill, at Darrell’s request, came on the stage from the right side, and all was well. But other things went wrong. Other people came in for criticism and blame, the courtiers were ordered to sing their song four times, the servants didn’t bow properly, or curtsy at the right moment, Buttons was talking when she shouldn’t be! Moira didn’t lose her temper, but she was unpleasant and hard. She fought to keep herself in hand. She was head-girl of the fifth. She was chief producer of the show. She had done all the donkey-work and licked things into shape. She meant to have her own way, and to have things as she liked — and she wasn’t going to say please and thank you and smile and clap, as that idiot of a Betty did! There was a lot more grumbling afterwards. Darrell and Sally began to feel panicky. Suppose the pantomime went to pieces instead of getting perfect? And then another horrid thing began. It was the coming of the anonymous letters — spiteful, hateful letters with no name at the end!